Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Forty - Ezra

Funny. I haven't spoken a single world in days and I only now notice. I also wonder if I might be a bit delirious. The last bite of food I had was someone's leftover fries outside a McDonald's. My stomach stopped growling a while ago. My clothes are starting to feel baggy too. But for as hungry as I am right now, it's still not enough to make me walk inside The Sanctuary. I can't face Elaine. I hurt her once and I refuse to do it again. I can't face Mama Gracie or Papa Wilbur either. Could their old hearts handle the weight of my failure? Can mine?

I'm not sure what compels me to do it – if it's the starvation or my eternal intoxication or just the sudden need to make sure that I'm still capable of speaking – but out of nowhere, I sing the lines to that old children's hymn that Mom used to sing when we visited her in the hospital.

"'I've got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart. Down in my heart. Down in my heart.'"

My voice is hoarse and raspy. Hot tears stream down my face as I remember all that I've left behind, but still I sing because somehow it fills me with something... more.

"'And I'm so happy. So very happy. I've got the love of Jesus in my heart.'"

I try to recall the last time I sang a song like this. When I can't, I realize that the last time I sang at all was when Mom passed away and it was just the three of us around her bed – Dad, Liam, and me. That's the last time I remember ever believing something could exist outside of hurt. Every prayer after that moment felt hollow and aimless, like asking the sky a question and expecting an answer back. Eventually, I stopped praying altogether. Not because I didn't believe God was there, but because I didn't think that I was anymore.

Until now.

Except in this moment, as much as I might need it, I don't pray for myself. I pray for Dad and Liam. I pray for Mama Gracie and Papa Wilbur. I pray for Bob and Jerry and my former landlord and for Amy too. Last of all, I pray for Elaine. I pray that she finds the kind of man who deserves her, the kind of man whose eyes brim with life almost as much as hers do.

I drift to sleep, devastated by the knowledge that I am not that man.

A knock on the frame of the old Honda startles me from my sleep. I whip my head around, pulling a muscle in my neck, and see Papa Wilbur's friendly, wrinkled face through the clear plastic. A scarf wrapped tight around his neck and bundled in both a hoodie and a pea coat, he still shivers.

Rubbing my eyes, I pull the white sheet off of me. I push the door open and step out into the cold, tug my jacket tight around me. Rubbing my arms to keep them warm, I wait for Papa Wilbur to speak.

Frowning, he looks me up and down. "We thought you'd gone and run away on us, kid."

"I did. Sort of." My teeth clatter. A siren wails in the distance. The pale sunlight does little to warm the world around us.

"Well, what are you doing all the way out here? Come back inside. We got plenty o' hot soup t' go around. Ya don't have t' freeze out here all by yer lonesome."

"I can't go back, Papa Wilbur," I say, jaw tense. I clench and unclench my fists in the pockets of my jacket.

"Why the blazes not?" he exclaims, pulling his fedora down low on his forehead to block out the ray of morning sunlight that breaks through the thin, gray clouds.

"You don't understand."

"Try me, son."

"I liked Elaine. A lot."